by Alan Gold
“Then,” said the elderly scholar, rummaging among the texts on his table until he pulled out a thick and dusty tome, “you can assist us with the medical and anatomical terms used by the great Hippocrates of Kos, which we scholars of language have found difficult to translate into languages from his archaic Greek. He uses terms for the human body and its ailments with which we are unfamiliar.”
Zakki found a cushion and sat among his peers. “Gladly . . . brothers.”
• • •
It was his second week in the House of Wisdom when Zakki’s intellectual life was turned on its head. He had come to Baghdad at the invitation of the caliph to share his knowledge with other scholars. He also hoped that he would learn greater things from them.
Neither a proud nor hubristic man, Zakki was wise enough to know that there was much he didn’t know; he was always open to learn more. Like his forefathers, he came from a long and honorable line of priests, scholars, and healers. And like them, he had always gone in search of knowledge.
He had spent a lifetime acquiring the knowledge of his professions of medicine, healing, and alchemy. His rubric was that the facts he collected were just that, facts and information, often disparate and disconnected. Yet in his mind, he somehow transformed them into knowledge of the world, and through that knowledge, he could determine the right treatment for his patients.
But Zakki wasn’t satisfied. Knowledge wasn’t enough. Facts weren’t sufficient fuel to give him the wisdom on how his knowledge fit into a universal landscape. When he was with philosophers, discussing the deepest of subjects—such as why mankind had been ordained by the Almighty One to be above the animals—he felt himself a supplicant at their feet.
When he sat and thought as a philosopher, his knowledge was insufficient. For knowledge to metamorphose into the wisdom of philosophy, what was required was the company of other minds, discussion and argument, challenge and intellectual conflict, which would, in time, lead him to deeper and deeper thoughts. And this was what he had found for the first time in his life at the House of Wisdom.
None, though, neither the Muslims nor the other Jews nor the men who had traveled from the farthest reaches of the world, challenged him, or transmuted his knowledge into the wisdom of philosophy, more than Osric the Monk, who came to Baghdad from an abbey in a township called Glastonbury in a country called Anglia, which was north of Gallic France.
Invited like other scholars, to the House of Wisdom by the caliph, Osric of Leicester was a small and wiry man, balding yet with a face that defied all but the crudest indication of age. Osric was a monkish scholar who had brought with him to Baghdad twenty volumes of a Codex he called the Etymologiae, written a hundred years earlier by the greatest scholar of his age, Bishop Isidor of Seville. This bishop had written what Osric called “a summation of all the knowledge of the world.” The works contained 450 chapters of densely packed facts concerning the earth itself, the life of men who lived in the past, religion, science, and much more.
“Not since the time of Homer, Pliny, and Thucydides has a man known everything that there was to know, here on earth and in the heavens above,” Osric had told Zakki when they first sat on low cushions, legs folded, to discuss the intersection between the books of Moses and those written by the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth.
But when Osric explained to Zakki what the long-dead bishop had written about Zakki’s own city of Jerusalem, he argued that much of the information was simply incorrect. Bishop Isidor had written that King Solomon had left a great and incalculable treasure for the benefit of mankind, yet the Romans didn’t realize that it was in the treasure house of his temple when they pulled it down to punish the Jews. So the treasure of gold, silver, and precious gems was, to this day, buried under a massive heap of stones.
Zakki told Osric that, yes, there was stone upon stone in massive piles of rubble, far too heavy for the citizens to lift and clear away. It was so much, Zakki told him, that successive governments of the city, the Romans, Jews, and now Muslims, had left it as it was for hundreds of years, and it was true that nobody knew what was beneath the massive stones. But to think that the Romans, the greatest scavengers the world had ever known, would have left even a single precious stone or the smallest golden object was nonsense.
Yet day after day, Osric argued that the treasure was there to be found, and that when it was, it would herald the return of Jesus Christ as Messiah in the second coming, to save the world from its misery.
“When it is found, Solomon’s wealth will be distributed to all the poor of the earth and raise them above the status of serfs and villains. It is even said that the noble emperor Constantine himself, first great Roman to convert to my faith, sent his very mother, the blessed Saint Helena, to find the treasure of Solomon. Wherefore, then, should we doubt or fail to seek this treasure?”
Zakki turned on the monk. “What nonsense you Christians talk,” he said sharply. “Helena made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to recover the cross on which your messiah was crucified. And it has been told that when they found out the emperor’s mother was in Jerusalem, there were a thousand scoundrels who picked up branches from their gardens and made them into splinters, telling her that they were fragments of the true cross, and sold them to her for a fortune. Stories abound in Jerusalem of a man who lived there and owed a great debt, so when Helena visited the city, he convinced her that the ground he owned where stood a pagan temple was the very land upon which Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac, and upon which your Jesus of Nazareth was crucified, and where his sepulcher was laid to rest. She wasn’t looking for any treasure of Solomon, Osric, but for the remnants of the life of your Jesus.”
The monk looked at him disbelievingly and cited chapter and verse from Saint Isidor’s works to prove his case. To pacify the distressed Christian mystic, Zakki promised him that when he returned to Jerusalem, he would search diligently for such a treasure, though he knew in his heart that it had been dissipated when the Jews were sent on their first exile into Babylonia and then dispersed around the world.
On this point and others concerning science, ethics, theology, and philosophy, Zakki and Osric argued every day. They would also read from and debate Bishop Isidor’s other chapters in the Etymologiae. Zakki found it so amazing to read that he begged Osric to allow him to buy the set of books so he could spend the rest of his life studying them, but the monk had just received an urgent note from his monastery to return to Anglia. Zakki regretted his leaving, but Osric assured him that whenever Zakki was in Baghdad, he would always have access to St. Isidor because the monk would leave the volumes of the Etymologiae in the great library of the House of Wisdom, where they would be available to him and every other scholar.
Zakki spent his days either disputing with other sages, reading in the library, or translating ancient works, except those days dedicated to prayer. Several weeks passed before he decided to take some time to himself and explore the wonders of the city.
The construction of Baghdad had begun sixty years earlier by the Abbasid Caliph Al-Mansur when he transferred his capital from Damascus. It was in the fertile valley between the two great rivers Tigris and Euphrates and hence called by the Greeks Mesopotamia. The city was replete with palms and gardens, cool spots for contemplation, and roof gardens for the growing of vegetables such as carrots, herbs such as bananas, and fruits and flowers of every color and description.
Despite being in existence for such a short time, Baghdad was already greater and more prosperous than Jerusalem, which had never fully recovered from the devastation wreaked by the Romans seven hundred years earlier.
Meandering through the wide city streets, Zakki found that the epicenter of the city was a huge mosque. Around it were Islamic study houses and instruction centers for pupils from all over the world who had come to study at the feet of the great Abbasid Koranic teachers. These buildings were surrounded by a ring road, and beyond them were churches for Christian worshippers and synagogues for the many Jews who liv
ed in Baghdad. Surmounting these were shops that sold meats and cloth, copies of holy books, jewelry from Asia and farther east, ivory and the incredible skins of animals from Africa, and much more.
Tired from wandering in the heat of the day, Zakki walked beneath a cloth canopy attached to buildings on the side of the street and sat on a low stool at a wooden table in a market stall. The owner came over and asked what he wanted to eat or drink.
“Just a drink, please,” Zakki said.
The owner looked at the scholar’s clothes and sneered. “I suppose you’re a Jew! Why won’t you people eat my food? Isn’t it good enough for you?”
Zakki smiled. “It’s probably very good, my friend,” he said. “But our holy book prohibits us to eat that which hasn’t been prepared according to our ways, just as you Muslims are forbidden to drink spirits that intoxicate the mind or, like us, eat of the flesh of the pig.”
“I’m not a Muslim, friend,” the owner scoffed. “I’m a Christian, and I’ll starve in this city trying to feed people like you.”
Zakki took pity on him. “Then tell me, follower of Jesus, when you make bread, do you use the fat of a pig or the milk and butter of goats or sheep?”
“I use the milk and butter of cows.”
“Good,” said Zakki. “Then kindly bring me slices of your bread, and I’ll have some olives and seeds with it.”
The owner showed the rudiments of a smile. “And what about some beef? I’ve slices from the haunch of a cow, if you’d like that.”
Zakki shook his head. “No, friend, just the bread.”
He sat alone, reveling in the silence of the street. Silence? It was full of the sounds of people and commerce. Yet compared to the perpetual din, the never-ending discord and shouting and arguments in the House of Wisdom, this was like being in the Fields of Elysium.
When he’d finished his bread and olives, he decided it was time for him to move on, but as he sat, he wondered where he should go. To another stall selling pomegranate juice? To look at more mosques, minarets, churches, synagogues, shops, houses and schools of learning? Or should he just sit here in the heat of the day, reveling in the freedom his mind had been given to think.
His cascading thoughts were broken when a shadow was cast over the table. Zakki looked up and saw a man about to walk underneath the canopy of the café. He was tall, dressed in fine clothes, and Zakki saw standing in the roadway a dozen of the caliph’s guards as escort.
Instead of sitting at one of the other three benches, the man sat on the remaining wooden stool at Zakki’s table, much to the doctor’s surprise.
The man looked at Zakki and nodded without smiling. “Greetings to you, Zaccharius, son of Jacob, son of Abraham of the tribe of Levi. Welcome to Baghdad. I hope you like my city after your life in Jerusalem. How does the day greet you?”
“It greets me well, thank you, sir. But you have the advantage, for I do not know you.”
The tall man waved his hand as if his identity was of no consequence. “Yet I know you. And why you’re here by request of our caliph, Ja’far al-Ma’mun, at his pleasure and munificence.”
Zakki studied the face of the tall man. He was obviously wealthy, and his skin had been softened with oils and unguents to protect him from the fierce heat of the desert. His clothes, unlike those of the scholars with whom Zakki worked, weren’t just colorful but richly endowed with jewels and made of the finest silks from distant Asia. The man’s movements, even sitting, showed that he was a person of position in the city, comfortable in himself and apparently used to the respect of others.
“How do you know me, Your Excellency?”
“Ah, it is a strange tale. The world is indeed getting smaller.” The man left an elongated pause, seemingly for dramatic effect, before continuing. “Many years ago, your great-grandfather of blessed memory cured my great-grandmother of a sickly yellow disease that caused her to faint all the while. Your grandfather called the disease ‘chlorosis,’ and she recovered when your grandfather forced her to eat the leaves of vegetables.”
Zakki nodded at the simple cure.
“This is something that my family has done ever since and which I believe has kept us well and healthy. So when I heard that your reputation in Jerusalem had grown sufficiently, I suggested to my caliph that he send for you to join other scholars in our House of Wisdom.”
“Then I owe you thanks. And I gather from what you’ve said that you’re a Jew.”
The tall man nodded. “It seems that our paths have crossed before. In the distant past. Isn’t it told that your ancestors were priests in Solomon’s temple?”
Zakki smiled. “I’m told by my father and his father before him that our family line can be traced back to Zadok the Priest. That’s why I was given my name. But how does that relate us?”
“I come from a long line of builders and traders. King Solomon’s temple came into existence and was fashioned by the money of my ancestors. So there is perhaps much, Doctor, that we have in common.”
“Except that I still don’t know your name,” retorted Zakki, his curiosity and suspicion growing.
“I am Hadir ibn Yussuf ibn Gibreel. I am the vizier to the caliph of the Abbasid ruling family, the ineffable and all-powerful Ja’far al-Ma’mun, may Allah and Mohammed His Prophet, Moses, and Jesus all smile upon him and bring him wisdom and great fortune.”
“You say these words of blessings to Mohammed and to Jesus? Yet you are a Jew? And you’ve taken an Arabic name. Why is this?”
Hadir shrugged. “We are a practical people. We are flexible. We adapt. To survive, we’ve had to; we’ve been exiled many times since Father Moses brought us out of the land of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. So we Jews prosper wherever we find ourselves.”
“Perhaps, Hadir, but we have always retained our faith,” said Zakki.
“Indeed, my friend. I am as much a Jew as you, but to look and sound part of this great city, I dress like them and speak like them. And I have prospered—greatly. Many Jews have risen to power and status in the reign of the Abbasids. We are recognized for our skills as merchants, our knowledge of the laws that govern this and other lands, and our learning. And because of our lines of families and friendships scattered throughout the world since the Romans expelled our people from Israel, we have a great advantage over others in trade.”
“True, but many of our people have returned to Israel.”
“As did my ancestors. But the growth and spread of Islam has given us boundless opportunities. Where once Islam was warlike, today it is calm and peaceful, and men like my caliph are striving to uncover all that this world has to offer. That’s why the House of Wisdom was built. It is the golden center of Islamic learning, and that’s why I wanted you to be part of it, Zakki ben Jacob.”
Zakki looked at the other man and saw beyond the smile, the visage. There was something more, something deeper, that the man was hiding.
“Is that the only reason you’ve invited me to Baghdad, Hadir ibn Yussuf?”
Hadir smiled and turned to the owner of the stall, standing in the corner. The shopkeeper was at a loss to understand why such an important man as the caliph’s vizier would have visited.
“Your finest juice, my friend, and I’ll also have some bread and olives.”
Bowing, the shopkeeper returned to his counter. Never had his stall been full of such eminent men. He couldn’t wait to regale his wife and children with the story later that night.
Hadir turned back to Zakki. “You have a suspicious mind, Doctor.”
Zakki shrugged. “I’m told many things, but I’m trained to see beyond the words, into the minds and thoughts of those who seek me out. There are many eminent scholars in our world. Many far more knowledgeable than I. Yet you selected me. I’d like to know why.”
The café owner reappeared and set down a glass of pomegranate juice before Hadir, as well as a plate of bread, olives, oil, and a paste of pulverized lentils. He stood there, smiling at the important m
an and waiting for a word of thanks.
Hadir looked up at him. “This looks delicious. Thank you, my friend.” He took some coins out of his pocket, far more than the owner normally charged, and put them in the man’s palm. The shop owner backed away, bowing.
The two men ate in silence until, at last, Hadir leaned forward to close the gap between them. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There is something you must do for me.”
“Must?” said Zakki incredulously. “Is there some debt I owe you for having me summoned here?”
Hadir smiled, but it was insincere and cold. “There is no debt. But you may feel . . .” He paused as if looking for the right word. “Compelled.”
The word made Zakki’s muscles tense.
“Be at ease, my friend. Let me explain. How much do you know about the great schism in the religion practiced by my caliph: the division between those who are calling themselves Sunni, who believe that Abu Bakr, Mohammed’s father-in-law and close companion, is the rightful heir and the first caliph, and those who call themselves Shi’ite and believe that Mohammed’s son-in-law and cousin, Ali, was his rightful heir?”
The scholar in Zakki pushed ahead of his more nervous self. “I know a little . . . I know that when their Prophet Mohammed was nearing death, his followers were confused as to whom he had named as his successor to be caliph. As you say, some thought it was Abu Bakr, while others thought that it was Ali.”
Hadir leaned closer before replying. “And this disputation has gone on now for nearly two hundred years. It gets worse as the years go by. Deaths, murders, wars. I fear that even the great house of the Abbasids will be brought low by the internecine conflicts. Yes, my friend, there is going to be a war between those who are devotees of the Sunni tradition and those who believe with all their hearts in the Shi’ite lineage of the Prophet Mohammed. My caliph’s brother, Abu Ishaq al-Mu’tasim, is a devout Sunni, but he hasn’t the intellect or culture of my beloved employer and is driven by demons in his mind. He has sworn to murder a young boy, aged only nine, who claims to be the ninth imam of the Shi’ites, a boy called Muhammad al-Jawad. He declares that by killing the child, he will put an end to the Shi’ite heresy.”
